


je vois de morts (and sometimes they talk to me)

by notalotgoingon



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Everyone is gay except Toast, F/F, Find Toast a friend, Ghosts, Like Sixth Sense without the cool twist, M/M, Mention of a weapon, Phasmophobia inspired, Toast is lonely, blowjob, mention of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28421934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalotgoingon/pseuds/notalotgoingon
Summary: Corpse can see dead people. Sykkuno is in the wrong place at the wrong time, so Corpse, like a valiant knight, rescues him. This leads Sykkuno to go ghost hunting, make new friends, and more. It’s cooler than it sounds, promise!
Relationships: Corpse Husband/Sykkuno (Video Blogging RPF), Rachel “Rae” Hofstetter/Pokimane
Comments: 8
Kudos: 89





	je vois de morts (and sometimes they talk to me)

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, WORK OF FICTION. Don’t send to people involved, will take down if they voice that it makes them uncomfortable, etc. The usual disclaimer.
> 
> If you made it here after that terrible summary, good for you! Enjoy this story and as always, leave comments, concerns, suggestions, whatever you feel like saying, as long as it’s constructive and not meant to harm anyone. There’s also no beta because clearly, I’m not put together or professional here, so there definitely may be errors, which you are free to point out as you wish, encouraged to, even!

“Hazel,” I drop to my knees in front of the teary eyed five-year-old, “what’s going on?” 

She perks up a bit, “I know you! We went to after school together!”

“We did, and shouldn’t you be there right now?”

Hazel is a red-headed child that is as stubborn as she is playful. In the after school program, she was fawned over, until they realized how obstinate she really is. Then, I came in, due to a mix-up that wasn’t actually a mix-up, regarding my cheerleading practices being thrice a week instead of daily, and brought her reign of terror to an end. In the first week, we bonded over Christmas cards and cupcakes; by the second, we were best friends. I was an eleventh grader, so I suppose we did make a funny sight at the art table, my lanky figure squeezed into a tiny blue chair while Hazel instructed me the perfect way to draw Santa Claus, her hair still frizzy from outside time and glasses lopsided, too invested in her work to care. It was a good, working relationship: she kept me entertained for the two hours until I could go home, and I protected her from schoolyard bullies and gave her a better seat during movie time, usually hoisting her onto my lap or shoulder.

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna.” She admits glumly, “Caroline’s there, and she’s too mean.”

“I’m sure, but you have to go back there, okay? For me? Your parents will get worried when they don’t find you.”

“Okay, Kuno,” she finally brings a smile to her freckled face and wipes away her tears.

I crouch down to pick her up, but she asserts she is capable of walking on her own, so I allow her to lead me through the exit doors like a stray puppy. Unfortunately, I forgot the cheerleading practices would still be held outside, so I am forced to face my fears as I am tugged right into a bustling common area. I mean, really, isn’t it their fault, ruining my afternoon, by using the space outside the school instead of in the gym or on the football field?

“Sykkuno,” the coach narrows her beady eyes at me. She disgusts me, everything about her. Usually, I find it hard to hate people, but this woman, Mandy, practically begs me to despise her, though I still hold out a bit of hope that she isn’t as bad as I perceive. “Nice to see you ‘round here again.”

It is obviously a lie, gaging by the venomous look in her eyes and the falsely sweet tone. I am just glad she has a husband that matches her exactly, the basketball coach, in fact. I have learned my lesson not to try out for sports that were “not made for my kinda boy.” It didn’t affect me much, but since I’m the type to let a dislike for people fester, never doing anything mean or saying something rude, just letting it stew, my hatred only grew to detest her. I force myself to manage it, and I greet my old team and their coach with a smile.

The assistant coach, who I much prefer over the hag standing beside her, speaks happily, “Well, here’s the best cheerleader we’ve ever had!”

“Thank you, Julie,” I accept the warmly offered hug.

“Would you please join us for a routine?”

“Well,” I gesture to Hazel, “I need to get her back to-“

The clever girl sees an out and takes it, “I wanna see you dance, Kuno!”

The assistant coach encourages me to do “just one dance.” I concede, attempting to take my place in the front but find it filled by Jennifer. Of course, I groan internally, but it’s not like Jennifer has been awful to me. I mean, sure, she was always jealous when I was on the squad and took every opportunity to criticize me, but I blame it on her childhood or something that made her so cold.

I stood to the side, watching the first few moves and recognizing the cheer. Really, they're the same every year, no variety at all. Two claps, a few stomps, some barbaric yelling, and a cartwheel or seven. It’s hard to believe I was ever one of them. My sunny disposition has leaped off the edge into the realm of sadness. I shakily return to Hazel to find Coach Mandy screeching at a bunch of first graders who cheer in the mini team. Memories of her doing the exact same thing to me fill my head unwillingly. She makes herself feel higher by bringing others down, I recite like a promise, but it does not make me stop shaking. 

Jennifer is right behind her, seemingly the instigator for making the seven year olds cry. I wish people would stop being so mean. It doesn’t solve their problems. The only thing I can do is take Hazel, unaffected by the one-sided shouting match to her right, and leave.

“What’s wrong with her?” Hazel innocently asks.

“Prejudice against male cheerleaders,” I scoff, and whether that is the true reason she hates me or because her boyfriend liked me better last year, I don't know, and it doesn’t matter.

“Oh, I think you’re a good cheerleader.”

“Thank you.”

At least I have Hazel, I comfort myself. I drop her off at the after school care center, amid a flurry of “where you were” and “glad you’re back, thanks Sykkuno,” and start on the journey home. Without a car, it isn’t too terrible, and I can certainly use the workout. I do get lonely on cold, dark nights like these though.

I walk past the Chinese food place that connects to an office space that always seems to be ‘for-rent.’ I sweep my gaze around the multiple signs and pamphlets taped to the window, but one does catch my eye. It reads something about professional ghost-hunters, yet that’s not the interesting part. There’s a block of text in the very center of the poster with a badly computer made image attached, both claiming a son with a “half-man, half-demon face” that helps them on their ghost-hunts. I do hope they know how silly that sounds, but the weird part is that I have, actually, seen the boy in question. He goes to my school.

I calm down, lean against the door until a man comes out, wondering if I’m okay. I tell him yes, but the real answer is heck no. I just found out I might go to school with a paranormal being; of course I’m not okay. I try to recall everything I can about this strange student. I know he’s rather tall, maybe five foot ten inches, but I think he was wearing boots when I saw him. Maybe his eyes were red, I think, or at least, they seemed that way in the light. I start to freak out. There is no way a creature like that exists if ghosts don’t exist, and I know for a fact that the latter is true. No, I scold myself, he was just wearing a mask to, uh, audition for the school play! And he definitely did not have red eyes because my mind is playing tricks on me. He is a normal, run of the mill student that I happened to pass in the hallway once on the way to English class, no unusual conditions or anything paranormal about him. Everything is fine.

*****

Everything is not fine. Everything is very, very bad.

I get home to find the door thrown open, and everything is flying around, papers on the floor and pens on the ceiling. I rush inside and, to my dismay and surprise, am thrown against the nearest wall, where three of my baby pictures are tilted and lopsided and one has slipped to the floor. The tiles in the kitchen seem to be vibrating. I hear my name being called from the top of the staircase, and I have never been religious, but right now, surrounded by utter chaos, I start to pray.

Eventually climbing the wobbling staircase, I hope for food poisoning or a bout of hysteria, anything but what is actually staring me right in the face. There is a teddy bear with a fire poker clutched in its paw. I nearly faint. I duck into the closest room, the home office and sigh with relief: the crazy, demonic teddy bear cannot get me now. I never thought I would have to run from a child’s toy or even consider the fact that a crazy, demonic teddy bear would be brandishing weapons at me. I assume it’s all just a sick joke being played on me. I don’t have any cousins, but maybe my parents have recently taken up playing pranks on their teenage son. Nope. 

I give up all hope when I see the shadowy figure in the corner.

“Shhh,” he waves a hand at me, up and down like lowering the volume of the room with his fingers, and I go to protest that I wasn’t even talking in the first place, but he shushes me again. The audacity.

I take in his appearance. He’s dressed in black from what I can tell. Black boots, dark clothing, chains dangling, and oh yeah, have I mentioned he’s crouched on my father’s desk? Wearing a bedsheet as a cape? I am enraged. How dare this heathen break into my home and ridicule me by rigging a bear up to scare me? 

I begin to wonder why he’s even here. Why is a boy hiding in my dad’s office? Why is there even a boy in my house? I tear the sheet off of him and begin to shout, but he drops to the floor and brings me down with him.

Then, I get even more fearful when the window is thrown open. After that, I throw the sheet over the boy and myself and consider our options. I look at him and form an inkling of an idea that rather terrifies me. He’s wearing a purplish mask that almost looks like a skull with a bunny ear on one side. But that’s not scary, though a tad odd. The really horrifying part is that he looks exactly like the “half demon” from outside the Chinese restaurant. I panic, air suffocating me, throat closing up, heart racing. He looks at me like I’m scum, and I only shake more and more like a leaf in the wind.

Trepidation, confusion, apprehension, dread, absolute terror, I’m using my entire English vocabulary exam to sum it up, but all I can think is no. Just no. No, I shouldn’t be here. No, I shouldn’t have walked in through a door that was swinging off its hinges. No, I shouldn’t be under a thin sheet with a man whom I do not know. No, I do not know what to do.

“Oh Jesus!” I shriek as the teddy bear opens the door.

“Jesus can’t save you now,” he snorts bitterly, the first words I ever hear from his lips are damning us. He glares at me, “I’m trying to save you, so could you kindly shut up? They are looking for you specifically.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. And they might be dead but they can hear, so keep it down.”

“But you’re the one talking.”

“Not like that,” he whispers, using a hole in our covering as a spyglass, “they hear your fear. And you, love, are practically shouting our location from the rooftops. So hush up, sweetheart.”

“Ghosts aren’t real. And I want to talk to you about this thing,” I see the opportunity to ask about the flyer, not that I actually believe he’s a demon, but curiosity killed the cat; also, if I do end up dying tonight, I want my question answered, a last request of sorts.

“Shut up,” he says for the second time, not quite rudely now that I understand he’s just trying to assist us out of this predicament, “stop being afraid.”

“It would help if you weren’t basically on top of me,” a hand is clamped around my mouth, cutting me off, but it’s not mine, and it’s not his. It’s wet, slimy, and all around pretty gross, definitely top ten weirdest things I’ve seen.

“Ahhhhh!” I scream through, but the boy just shrugs, an “I told you so” on the tip of his tongue. I take solace in the fact that the final thing I see will be his jawline, cut from marble by ancient sculptors who slaved over his creation for months, churning out a perfect specimen of a beautiful being. Okay, maybe I should stop reading so much, it does tend to convolute my thoughts at times.

He starts to talk to the thing that’s holding onto me. He tells it to back off, and I want to laugh at his ridiculous attempt at scaring it. Usually in the movies, evil spirits don’t listen to the characters. Although this isn’t a movie, so somehow, the monster listens.

I beg for this to be a dream. Perhaps I hit my head on a rock coming home. Maybe even, I misjudged a landing for a standing back tuck, and the anesthesia meds the doctors gave me are just kicking in. No matter what, I beg for this whole day to fade out of existence. Then, the world goes black.

“Yeah, he just, I don’t know, fainted. Out of nowhere,” a raspy voice interrupts my slumber, “and I had to get him on the couch. See, I’m his tutor for history, and I guess the War of 1812 was too much for him, yeah?”

“Thank you for making sure he’s safe,” this time, I recognize my father’s voice.

And then my mother says, “Yes, our boy is quite the little worrier! Thank you, ah, what was it again?”

“Karl. Karl Jacobs.”

I am reassured to have the name of the person that rescued me, but I don’t believe his story. Sure, Karl seems like a good enough liar, and he’s certainly convinced my parents, but the acute terror I felt, going through the memories in my head is real. I remember it all vividly, too well for it to have all been a dream, and I definitely have never had a history tutor. I feel like I would remember having someone so handsome and mysterious like Karl is.  
*****  
The next day at school, I nearly skip first period to track down Karl. The ladies in the office like me and would look his name up if I ask, but something stops me. It feels invasive to search for him obsessively just for a thank you. Also, I have a perfect attendance record to keep up with, so ditching class is pretty much out of the question. I rack my brain but can’t seem to recall anyone named Karl with a sonically flawless voice that wears a purple mask. I wonder if he only wears it when he rescues people from ghosts. Then, I tell myself that can’t be it because I wasn’t actually being haunted by ghosts. It was wind or-or something, but ghosts don’t exist. Karl was probably just in the neighborhood and heard me screaming. He was in the house before me though, so I think maybe my memory must be messed up after being unconscious. That’s it, yeah, my memory is wrong, that’s the only logical conclusion.

I remember being in second grade when my gifted program teacher gave us nine or so dots on a page in the shape of a triangle. He explained that the goal was to pass through every mark without going through one twice. It was simple, but none of us could do it. He laughed at us, at the simplicity of the task that we could not fulfil. He instructed us to think illogically, out of the box. Yet again, we all failed. The triangle predicament, I labeled it in my head with a bitter tone, marked it all up in red pen to no avail. The following afternoon, he traced through every dot, just like us, except he succeeded. He thought outside of the box, literally going through the sides of the shape. We rolled our eyes stubbornly, claimed that five more minutes would have had it solved, but we could all respect having been beaten, even if nobody admitted it. I scowled, but it was right there. Now, I know to always assume the logical stance, but when in doubt, once the possible has been examined and thrown out, the only option remaining is the impossible. 

Ghostly beings or not, Karl Jacobs saved me, and I am quite determined to thank him. I scour the crowds for him but come up short. I am at a disadvantage due to his mask having covered up nearly his whole face. I don’t give up because I’ve got an ace up my sleeve. Her name is Ash, and she knows just about everyone at school and everything they’re doing on any given day. We did cheerleading together and bonded quickly. Perhaps it was our awkwardness at first, baby gazelle, she’d say, or it was that we were basically pushed to being friends due to her being a flyer and me normally being the designated catcher, as the only boy on the squad. She’s petite and sweet, friend-shaped, she likes to squeak out whenever someone picks on her stature. I find her during lunch at her table. Well, technically, it’s the unofficial cheerleader table, but everyone calls it Ash’s because she’s so nice that it’s nearly impossible not to give her anything and everything in sight.

“Sykkuno!” She greets happily in her uniquely Australian accent.

“Hey, Ash.”

The other girls nod to me but, thankfully, all talk amongst themselves while I ask her about Karl.

She scrunches her nose up like she’s been commissioned to solve a very difficult math equation. Sounding out the syllables, she reports her findings from inside her gossip-lined file cabinet of a genius mind, “Karl Jacobs. Okay, um, he’s right, him. Of course. Yeah, because Brooke has him in chemistry. I know who you’re looking for!”

“Really?” My smile widens, but a few looks have been drawn from her gleeful shout, so I cover it awkwardly.

“Sure. You’ll find him at, uh, the computer lab, right, Brooke?” She consults a blonde next to her who nods along like she’s just happy to be involved, “Right, Karl Jacobs, same year as us. Uh, chemistry third period, A-B student, no romantic affiliations, anything else you need to know?”

“Actually, yeah. Does he wear a mask of any sort?”

She appears puzzled, and I’m sure it must sound like a weird request, “No, not that I am aware of.”

If Ash doesn’t know about, it probably doesn’t exist. At least, in the realm of our school because she still doesn’t believe Pluto deserves planet status. Heavenly body or not, nobody should be told they are less than, not even a dwarf planet, and I would think as a short person, she would understand that.  
*****  
I locate Karl in the lab, staring at his peanut butter sandwich like it killed his first dog or something.

“Can I help you?” He asks politely when I nervously tap on his shoulder.

“Yeah, actually, I wanted to tell you thank you.”

“For what?” 

I realize then that I have majorly messed up. He does not have the voice of an angel, erm, demon, I suppose. He looks normal, not like a half-monster, and his face is perfectly visible, no mask in sight. I want to turn back, but it’s too late now. All I can do is admit the mistake.

“Oh, you’re not who I thought you were,” I hunch my shoulders and rub my neck. This is not going how I planned.

“Who did you think I was?”

“Karl Jacobs.”

He doesn’t seem to see the error that is glaring me right in the face, “That’s exactly who I am.”

“Yeah, but I guess you weren’t at my house last night.”

“No, I was playing video games last night with Wilbur and Tommy,” he gestures to the boys at the table next to him, “as lame as that sounds. I’m sorry, there must be a misunderstanding.”

I finish the awkwardness with a weird half-wave and sulk away. Either “Karl Jacobs” is not who he said he was, or-or maybe someone possessed the boy who rescued me and...no, it can’t be that because ghosts don’t exist. Maybe I’m doomed to never get answers, the nagging side of me drones on. I drown out that thought with positive energy. Perhaps I will find the mystery savior. Perhaps I will find him right where I least expect him. Like right next to Hazel.

“Hey, why aren’t you at after school again?” I sit cross legged next to her on the ground as she picks at dandelions. “They’ll get worried again.”

“I don’t care. They don’t care about me. Devon always takes over the train table anyway, nobody minds,” I refrain from telling her how adorable her pouting is because she’d probably take offense to that. I hate seeing her so sad, but she has to go before her parents find out she’s missing. I lift her into the air, soaring like a spacecraft, before placing her back down again so that I won’t drop her as a mix of surprise and fear takes over.

“No, I mean you could if you-“ I recognize Karl from today’s voice from behind me, but he abruptly cuts himself off.

“Wha- oh,” it’s him, my eyes go wide, the one from last night.

The hallway is weirdly quiet. I anticipate both of them to be a mirage, that if I step too close, they’ll evaporate. I almost get scared that they don’t even exist.

The fake Karl clears his throat, “Hey.”

“Who are you?” I narrow my eyes, not to be rude, just to squint for a better view of him, make sure he’s not a ghost or anything crazy like that.

“I’m, uh...er, I just,” he stammers for a bit, the opposite of the charismatic show he put on for my parents and me the night before.

I place my hands on my hips, “Not Karl?” I prompt, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

The other leaps in, rescue mission failing prior to it even taking off, “But I am!”

“Yes, I-I know that. But who is he?”

“Can I go now?” Karl, the boy with brown hair and a fair complexion, requests, shifting from foot to foot.

Hazel tugs on my pant leg, the highest point she can reach, to remind me she is still very much in the room, “Kuno, wanna go home.”

“Okay, we have to wait for your parents to get here, first. I’ll take you back.”

Just as I push open the door, I hear a faint call, “Wait I’ll explain everything, just meet me for some dinner around five?”

I am kind of hungry, and it’s not like I have actual plans going on, “I guess so. Where?”

He gives me the address of a place sort of near my house but just close enough to school that I can walk. I hear his name, Corpse. Makes sense. He slings his backpack over one shoulder and skulks like a shadow back down the hallway.

“Here, Hazel, let’s go now.”

*****

“Alright, let’s get this straight,” I say and almost convince myself he retorts, “I’m not.”

But I am not one to dwell on hopeless cases so I continue, “You can speak to the dead.”

“Better than I can to the living,” he shrugs, “but yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, explain what that means. Please.”

“I can see spirits. Have since I was a child. I could never understand why other kids and adults never saw them, but I-I was haunted constantly by them. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on how you look at it, my parents are ghost hunters. So they see my ability as a gift rather than a curse, although the drawback is that I have to go on a lot of excursions with them.”

“Oh,” I nod in understanding though not all of my questions have been answered.

He orders us a basket of fries to share, two drinks, and some chicken wings.

“So why didn’t you save me from the ghosts immediately?”

He leans in conspiratorially, like he’s about to share a secret of the utmost importance, “It was fun hearing you scream.”

“Mean,” I stick my tongue out like a child.

“Yeah, yeah,” he smirks, “tell me all about it.”

“You know, you don’t exactly look like a Sykkuno.”

“Really?” I dip a fry into the ketchup. “What do I look like?”

“A cute boy,” he says, making my cheeks heat up. “Um, I don’t know. I’d name you Thomas or something. You know, we had a ghost named Thomas once. He was okay, didn’t want to talk much, but he didn’t mind when they locked me in a room with him. Didn’t kill me, so that was good.”

“Wow. You actually ghost hunt? That’s cool.”

“I guess. You could come if you want. My parents don’t do it so much anymore. There was a lot of buzz about ghosts a while back, and they made some extra money for their retirement fund. The usual old people stuff. And, uh, Rae and Toast won’t mind if you do. Come with us, I mean.”

He’s a little odd, I find. He jumps from topic to topic without giving pause or context for what the next idea will be. I like it though. I take another sip of the milkshake he bought me and let myself be completely enthralled in his manner of speech.

“Rae and Toast?”

“My friends. They come sometimes. Toast is rich, so he buys all our gear, and sometimes, Rae’s roommate joins in occasionally. They’re all really fun. You should come once or twice, might like it.”

I nod in agreement with the offer because it does sound nice. My stomach begins to ache, and I stop talking for a bit. He does too, deciding instead to finish off the food still on the table.

“What’s it like when everyone thinks you’re a demon?” I ask since I have never enjoyed awkward silences, even if they’re not exactly awkward and the blame for said silence partly rests on my behalf. It occurs to me immediately that this is not the right thing to do when his face contorts into a grimace. Clearly, I’ve touched on a bad subject. 

“It’s, uh, rough, to say the least,” he admits eventually.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s cool. Curiosity is a good thing for a ghost hunter to have. Don’t be afraid, I don’t bite. You can ask me anything.”

“Oh, well, uh...what do the ghosts say?”

He gets a kind of nostalgic grin, “Usually, nothing. But on the off chance we catch a meeting with a good one, it can be pretty long-winded. The old ones don’t like to talk much, closed off. The banshees just scream their heads off for a bit, remind me of you. The children are fun, mostly keep to one place, easy to talk to. You’d get on well with them, like you do with that little girl.”

Of course, I sigh internally, he saw me with Hazel. It’s not like I’m ashamed of her because I care for her and love her like a sister, but he might think it odd that I walk around with a toddler in my spare time. Other students seem to think so.

“Right,” I nod, wanting to keep the conversation flowing, though I feel a bit anxious. I really like talking to him, “that’s Hazel. We, uh, met in after school. It’s for like five year olds, I was just there last year.”

“She’s cute.”

“Very,” I smile happily, munching on another fry and telling him a story about her launching an all out war during recess time which involved seventeen red crayons that definitely weren’t hers and a little blonde girl that really should’ve stayed on her side of the swing set.

Eventually, it gets dark, well, darker than before, and I get the feeling Corpse wants to leave.

“I can walk you home,” he offers before I can say goodbye.

I wave him off because as much as I would love that, I don’t want to be a burden, “That’s not necessary.”

“Well, I feel kind of obligated, as your official ghost hunting bodyguard.”

“If y-you want to,” I shrug, “I don’t mind.”

He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and it doesn’t feel terrible. It’s not friendly either, like it is when Ash and I link arms in the hallways or after practice. It’s warm and comforting and something akin to affection like I’ve never received before. It’s affection I don’t know how to reciprocate, so I stand still and nearly hyperventilate. He must think I’m a complete loon by the time we get into the cold air outside. I want to scream at the top of my lungs that I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry, but he’s probably so nice that he’d ask what I’m apologizing for, and I wouldn’t know what to say after that. So I keep silent and still but not calm because I’m pretty incapable of that with the way he’s staring at me from the side right now.

He walks me home, and I would wonder how he knows my address except that’s a stupid question since he’s been there once, under a sheet, in the office. I guess that’s not how normal relationships start, yeah? And, really, I’m not expecting him to lean in like all the rom-coms say, but it would be kind of nice if his lips would latch onto mine in the cool silence of just past ten o’clock. But he does not and so I awkwardly wave goodbye and say something like “see you tomorrow,” except tomorrow is Saturday, and my words just sound like a lame attempt at “I wish you had kissed me.” I’m not supposed to think like that, though, so I restrict myself to goodbye. 

That night, I dream of demons and banshees, calling my name and screeching like, well, banshees, following me through a house that is not mine. I picture endless hallways of winding corridors that spiral into nightmarish landscapes the likes of which Stephen King could not put pen to paper and describe. At the end, however, I imagine strong arms around my thin shoulders and a hoarse voice that makes the ghoulish figures hang their heads in shame like scolded schoolchildren. He chatsizes them, and we prance off into the sunset, holding hands with plans for French fry dates and milkshakes.

It’s not even slightly realistic, I know, but when I wake up, I feel incompleteness and longing. It didn’t happen, so I don’t know why I try to convince myself that it did. I find some text messages from Ash, mostly updates on cheerleading and complaints about being dropped on her ankle once again. I never get many texts from others, usually just wake-up calls from my parents or classmates asking for homework help. It’s okay because I’ve never been one to have many friends or multiple at all, really. Now, I’ve got Ash, Corpse, and maybe even some of his friends if they like me. I smile, picking out my outfit for the day: green sweater and black jeans.

I settle in for a long, boring day of doing nothing. I throw a load of laundry into the machine and grab a snack of crackers and grapes, but then I run out of ideas. I wish I had given Corpse my number because I would at least have someone to talk to. I contemplate texting Ash, but stop myself since she’s probably busy or with friends and I don’t want to interrupt. I know we are not really close friends, and I am okay with that. I lie on my bed for a while and watch anime. Subsequently, I strum my bass guitar for a bit, but nothing seems to hold my attention. My thoughts drift off to Corpse, and I can’t stop myself. The boy basically controls my subconscious mind, but now he’s taking over my whole life too. Everywhere I look, there’s the bear and the sheets and everything screams at me to be afraid. But he said they feed on fear, and at this moment, I want nothing more than to keep them starving.

For not the first time, I wish that I had made more of an attempt at friendship because then I could have that magical Hallmark moment when one of them takes it upon themself to give the love interest my phone number. My life is not a movie, and our social circles don’t exactly intersect anyway, what with mine being virtually nonexistent and all. I wait for a call, a sign that he won’t forget about me in a day, confirming my fears that we are hardly friends, much less almost lovers, but I hope, I hope for something.

I get what I want around 4:52. The doorbell rings, and I rush to get it because my house doesn’t get a lot of visitors. There he is, a purple mask partially covering his face and thereby his nerves. I learned once, though, at a psychology camp that humans reveal all through their eyes. To look directly to the upper left of someone’s face is practically a red flag that you’re lying. In Corpse’s case, his eyes are dancing wildly, from the porch floor to the window and down again, back to his car where someone in the passenger’s seat is vigorously nodding at him and gesturing him forward.

“Hello?” I open the door cautiously.

“S-Sykkuno.”

“Uh, yeah,” I laugh nervously, “it is my house.”

“Right. So remember how I asked you to come ghost hunting with me?”

Five and a half minutes and a change of clothes later, I am sitting in the middle back seat of his car while the girl beside him starts chatting like there’s no tomorrow.

“Hey, I’m Rae. I’m glad Corpse told you to change. I mean, I loved what you were wearing before, but you might get a little messy, so it’s best to wear something you don’t mind ruining. This is why I just wore these old clothes. The first time I got my new skirt so messed up, I made Corpse buy me a new one. He should’ve told me that slime never comes out of faux leather. What’s your name, anyway?”

She’s so beautiful. I retract further into myself as I realize that she probably has an established relationship with Corpse that far surpasses what little interaction he and I have had. She’s breathtaking, long hair swishing around her collarbones that peek out from a low cut top. Times like these make me wish I liked women.

“Oh, I’m Sykkuno.”

She smiles, and I wonder why I thought I had any chance with the man sitting next to her, “That’s pretty.”

“You’re pretty too,” I say offhandedly, almost regretting it when Corpse starts laughing.

“Thanks.”

“You two must be happy together.”

Rae holds back a laugh, but Corpse outright snorts, hiding his guffaw in his elbow, “She doesn’t swing that way, babe.”

The pet name makes me blush, in addition to the embarrassment of reading the situation wrong.

“I-uh, oh. Sorry.”

She shakes her head, “Don’t be. It’s fine. And I think Corpse might have someone else on his mind anyway.”

Plugging her phone in, Rae starts taking song requests. Corpse suggests an alternative style band that I haven’t heard of, but as soon as the first chord is played on the bass, I start singing along like I know every word. We flip through other songs, sticking to a variety of pop, punk rock, and indie stuff, mostly.

Then, we take a sharp turn down a narrow dirt road that leads to a massive house, no, a manor. The fields surrounding it are lovely, all lavender picturesque lands of wonderful white roses, lilacs, and alliums.

“That’s...wow, who lives here?”

“Toast and Poki,” Corpse answers, bemused at my awe as we near the towering mansion.

“Woah.”

Rae bites her lower lip, “Yeah. There they are.”

The boy, taller by maybe three inches, is lugging a cyan duffle bag behind him, wearing a gray sweatshirt, and laughing at the girl with light brown hair and a really bright smile. They spot us and come forward, nudging each other and grinning happily.

“Hey, Kuno, wanna switch?” Rae’s eyes are locked on the tan, willowy girl dressed in a red short sleeve top and cuffed skinny jeans, hair falling in loose, wavy tendrils that look very soft.

Rae climbs into the backseat as I walk around, opening the door for the two newcomers on the way.

“And they were roommates,” Corpse mutters softly, giving me a playful eye roll. At least, I think it was playful. Pretty sure.

I nearly ask what’s going on until I see Poki practically trample over Toast to sit on Rae’s lap. They kiss each other lovingly, whispering things I can’t hear but I’m sure are very sweet.

“Looks like I’m set to be the fifth wheel,” Toast gripes, not looking very upset though. It goes right over my head that he is implying Corpse and I are a couple.

He puts in his headphones, and since Rae is no longer sitting shotgun, the music selection is orphaned. Corpse and I are left in silence, neither of us really wanting to be the DJ.

“So, whose ghost are we hunting?” I attempt to strike up a conversation, but just like lighting a match, I was never taught the proper way to do so and my awkward beginning burns up before I get the hang of it. Fortunately, Corpse finds a way to carry it on.

“Toast’s great-uncle Gerald.”

“Uh, cool.”

“Yeah, his place is stacked with stuff, though. Toast says we can take whatever we want. He has some nautical stuff like ships in bottles, antique life preservers, and lighthouse memorabilia. Fancied himself some kinda wine connoisseur. I don’t recommend getting drunk, though, makes you less sensitive to paranormal interactions.”

I try not to think about how he doesn’t care that I would get drunk, just that I wouldn’t be able to interact with the ghosts.

“Also, the wife might be a problem.”

“What?” My eyebrows raise unintentionally, surprise filling my features, “Is she alive? With a ghost in the house?”

He shakes his head, lowly cursing at an opossum in the road that he swerves to miss, “No, not that that doesn’t happen. Rather often actually, more common than you might think. She’s the ex-wife, well, the divorce papers weren’t finalized when she died. We think he killed her. Actually, we’re pretty certain he did. Rich guy like that, wouldn’t be hard to pay off someone or do it himself, seemed like the go-getter type. Swing a golf club hard enough, let the acid wipe away the DNA evidence, maybe even make a generous donation to the autopsy place, on the down low, of course.”

What am I supposed to say to that? Aw, shucks, let’s stage a seance and comfort her. I don’t even know if I should be in a car with three strangers and a man I don’t know who talks at length about murder like it’s nothing. I’m scared now, and I can’t imagine what it’ll be like when I get in the house.

“You look terrified,” he states the obvious, “don’t be. Toast informed me she was very pleasant while she was alive. And the murdered ones are always really fun to talk to.”

He tells me about past experiences, how to get them to calm down, basic ghost hunting tactics, he says. I should leave. Any sane person would leave now while there’s still daylight, call a car or an adult, and run. I guess that makes me crazy because for whatever reason, I stay, too enthralled by the magnetism of Corpse and his engaging stories to consider backing out.

The first mansion I saw had been stunning, a modern work of art, but this estate is a testament to the Victorian era in every way possible. An architectural fanatic would love to have a specimen like this to study, but everyone just heads inside like it’s any other house. I guess it is in their minds. They’ve probably seen tons of places just like this one. Poki and Rae don’t even bother detaching themselves from each other to look up at the stunning turrets and captivating arches. At least Toast gives it a once-over, bitterly shaking his head as though the house itself disappoints him. The gabled roof is steep like a professional skiers’s favorite mountain. In the darkness of almost night, it looks terrifying, straight out of a horror novel. I am not afraid, though, because as I have said before, my life is not a movie or book, just my life. Corpse guides me in, a gentle hand resting on my lower back as if it belongs there.

When Toast unzips his bag, I realize how in over my head I really am. I finally understand that this is real, that this is not a kid’s clubhouse adventure, that we are dealing with actual ghosts, and that we have actual equipment. Everyone, including myself, is handed a pair of night vision goggles, a tool belt, and a few pieces of technology that are supposed to pick up on paranormal activity. Corpse glances at his device with boredom. Of course, he doesn’t actually need them like the rest of us do. He can see them and converse with them while we cannot.

“Alright, split into teams,” Corpse takes charge immediately, “Rae and Poki, obviously. You guys should take the first floor, kitchen, living room, you get the point. Toast, you’re on basement watch. Is there an attic?”

“Not really, no way into it, and it’s empty.”

“Okay, then Sykkuno and I will scout out the second floor.”

I force my smile down, covering my mouth when it struggles against me to show itself. Corpse wants me on his team, I shout to myself. It’s amazing news. He leads me upstairs while the girls giggle and run off. Toast grumbles about birds in love or something and tosses some sage on the ground.

Eventually, Corpse and I find the first room, a parlor of sorts with old fashioned drapery and a delicate tea set in the center of the fancy table. We’re alone, and so I fill the empty space with mindless chatter.

“You look tired,” I comment, inspecting the gadget Toast gave me with the same uninterested look he did.

“Happens when you don’t sleep.”

I want to question him, but he explains, waving any notion of concern I have away, “The ghosts don’t exactly take breaks like humans. I’m lucky to get a few hours of alone time from the spiritual world.”

“Oh, makes sense.”

“Blessing and a curse,” he adds with a shrug. I would say I understand, but I really don’t. It doesn’t matter: he doesn’t seem like the type to share his feelings anyway. Or does he? He has told me a lot about his life, maybe not growing up or anything like that, but he had let me in on his prior experience with managing his ability. I’m not sure, actually, whether he’s the type to open up or not.

We meander around, inspecting spare rooms with sheets covering furniture and picking up some objects that look appealing. Corpse pockets two watches and a ring from the top drawer of the bureau in the master bedroom. I find a string of pearls in the bathroom that I take, not really sure if it’s morally right to take a dead person’s possessions but wanting to impress Corpse by following his example.

He must see my trepidation because he says, “Don’t worry about it, love, Toast’s family has enough money to choke several hundred horses. Cunts will probably loot the whole place anyway, take what they want, throw the rest away. We’re not taking the skin off their teeth. They won’t miss this stuff, especially once they sell all the furniture. One string of pearls for your pretty neck won’t hurt anyone.”

I can’t ignore the fact that he just called me pretty, even if the exact statement was only complimenting my neck because it counts.

“Oh, they’re not for me. I was thinking Poki or Rae might want them.”

“Nah,” he discourages the thought, “you should keep them. They’ll find other things. Like…” he sorts through an ornate mahogany box on the top of the dresser, “this ring for example.”

It’s lovely, probably pure silver or at least partly made of the precious metal. The stone in the center is an emerald, a beautiful green that shines even in the dim light the rising moon and the hallway light offers us.

“Take it.” He slips it into my pocket, his hand lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. His breath dances against my cheek, “Give it to a nice girl. Trust me, the family won’t miss it.”

“Okay.”

At my shaky agreement, he pulls away like a wisp of smoke, like he was never beside me at all, leaving only cold air in his wake.

“Old bastard probably gave half the good stuff to some young thing,” Corpse continues, “bled his bank accounts dry for the third wife, I’ve heard. The fourth, well, she never got to the ceremony. Miscarriage and well,” he shrugs, makes a careless gesture across his neck, miming death. I wonder if hers was planned or just a mistake. I wonder if at her funeral, did her family get the truth or a nice, hefty paycheck to weigh their pockets down and silence their pleas for justice? I wonder if it would have made a difference had they protested. Perhaps Toast’s family has connections in the police force, probably some amazing lawyers that would have a murder trial open and shut within days, a favorable verdict landing in their client’s hands.

“All that’s left is the silver,” Corpse inspects the drawers and jewelry boxes, “hint number one that this isn’t all of it. Secondly, there’s a spot right here in the exact shape of a Rolex with no dust. Everything else in this one is covered in it. The latch was unlocked, number three, meaning whoever opened it had the key. Either a maid with sticky fingers or an opportunistic fiancée. Seeing as how good old Uncle Gerald never had any servants after- what was it? 1993, I believe, yeah- 1993, I’d place a hefty wager on the girl.”

“Smart,” I read once that your pupils dilate when you see something you love. Mine must be the size of a Cold Moon at this point.

“Thanks,” he smiles, nicking a sapphire necklace, “where’d you put the pearls?”

I outstretch my hand, giving him the strand. He admires it for a minute and instructs me to turn around. I obey, a little apprehensive about what he’s doing but trusting him.

“There,” he presses a small kiss to the nape of my neck after clasping the necklace around my throat.

I smile, “Thank you.”

He looks like he’s about to lean in but stops himself, “Get in the bathroom.”

“Why?” I turn around, looking at the door that is currently hanging off its hinges like a recently emptied tire swing. Back and forth it rocks, I follow its movement before understanding. “I’ll get in the bathroom.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, calm under the circumstances.

I listen through the tightly shut door as he talks to the ghost, Toast’s great uncle, I presume, but perhaps it’s the spirit of his wife. I hope it’s not because she seems like she’s got unfinished business, and I don’t want to be in her way.

“You fucking bitch!” He shouts, sounding like he’s almost laughing, but his voice is still cutting through the air like a freshly sharpened blade, making it unclear whether he means it or not. Maybe he just really enjoys cursing out ghosts?

“Sykkuno, open up,” he raps on the door two and a half minutes later.

“That was fast,” I let him in, “what exactly happened?”

He launches into an explanation, something he seems to really enjoy doing, “Oh, well, like I told you, most ghosts are pleasant. They like my kind, people to talk to because well, the spirit world isn’t exactly so, erm, welcoming. A lot of rivalry and anger. That was Brooke, actually. I’ve spoken with her before, not too mean. She’s really one of the nicer ones. I’ll let you meet her one day.”

“Is, uh, she the murdered wife?”

“What?” He looks rather confused, “Oh! You mean, yeah, yeah. That’s not a real story. She wasn’t murdered, but if I could, I’d murder her right now for eavesdropping!” He screams wildly at the door, catching me off guard. Corpse notices and takes me into his arms in a warm hug.

“Don’t worry, lovely, everything is perfectly fine. She’s just right outside, you see, had to tell her to get the fuck out of here!” He shouts again, “She’s like that. She did explain that the fiancé did steal the good stuff. Including some nice vintage wines, shame, Toast’s parents are nicer when they’re tipsy, would have been fun tonight. And Brooke also says she likes you, and if you’ve won her approval, well, it’s basically worthless but you know, the thought counts.”

“You let her go? I thought we were ghost hunting?”

“Yeah, the mean ones are a different story. We send them straight to hell,” he laughs, mirth decorating his words, “or as close as there is to it. But Brooke is nice, she likes to have a good time just like us. So I sent her down to spook the others a little. The endorphins you get from being chased by a ghost is...oh, well, you would know since you experienced it already.”

“So did you want to go now?” I ask quietly, not noticing my hand brushing against his thigh or how close we are despite the large space around us.

Scratching the back of his neck, he finds the wall very interesting, “Yeah, but give it a minute.”

I look down at the floor or more specifically, the bulge in his pants, “Uh, you, er…”

“Right,” he follows my gaze, “side-effect of the adrenaline and maintaining the connection to the spiritual world, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“No, you’re just really cute.”

He threads his hand in his curly locks and I want him to press the pads of his fingertips into my scalp and tug. So I do something about it, “I can help you.”

“You, uh, al-alright.”

“I can do it,” I say, not knowing whether I’m convincing him or myself. Corpse watches as I drop to my knees on the cold marble tiles. I’m almost glad to be giving my first blowjob in a fancy, overly expensive bathroom with gold rings in my pockets and a string of pearls around my neck. 

I call upon all my knowledge. I remember every locker room conversation about what boys like and don’t like, how they would emphasize tongue but not teeth when they bucked into girl’s mouths. I can do this. It’s simple, right? I remind myself of all the times cheerleading practice drifted into girl talk/gossip sessions, when they would discuss the proper technique and protocol for things like this. It’s not that hard, I try to convince myself before deciding that enough is enough, and I should just jump in already.

I wrap my hand around Corpse’s length, experimentally going up and down, testing his reactions for a sign to continue. He throws his head back, eyes closed, fingers laced in my hair. I try again, and this time, he’s nearly pleading with me to continue. I do. I take a few timid licks, a bit unsure of myself but growing more confident with every moan he releases. Eventually, I’m taking him into my mouth and being very sure not to scrape him with my teeth for fear of injuring him. I swallow hard, hollowing my cheeks. The back of my throat rejects the unwanted presence, but I force it back anyway. I pull off, spit dripping from my lips and return to my earlier way of stroking him, eliciting a few groans. Eventually, Corpse begins to get more confident too, venturing into using more descriptive verbiage and talking.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, babe. Sykkuno, I-uh, so good at this. Please, again.”

I smile softly, pulling him once again into my mouth, darting my tongue out to deftly manage whatever isn’t getting enough attention. He finishes, and I get drunk on lust. I suck him down more and more, content to sit forever with his cock in my mouth as he whispers sweet, dirty things, tugging on my hair as he does. I get a little embarrassed, sucking off a man I met days ago, but somehow, I forget to care, licking the remnants of him off my mouth.

“Proper slut, you are, doing like that. Not that I mind,” he groans as a last thought, pulling his pants up quickly.

Nobody has ever instructed me on the right way to get up, so I stay on the floor, willing my arousal to stay down to any avoid unneeded awkwardness.

“I can finish you if you’d like?” He offers, but I decline, shaking my head and standing up.

“That’s alright, I’ve had enough fun for one night.”

He slings an arm around my shoulder, “You were so amazing, Sykkuno. Didn’t get scared or anything.”

“Yeah, we could make this a weekly thing, you know, if there’s room for one more on the team. I had a great time.”

He beams, “Ah, you’re already a member if you want to be. And as for this being a recurring thing, any time you wanna come suck me off in Toast’s dead great uncle’s estate’s second floor master bathroom, be my guest.”


End file.
